how to clear a breakroom full of yankees: slide tupperware lunch container of
collards and ham hocks in microwave, cook for two or three minutes, open lid
and inhale the delicate bouquet. mmmmmm. now enjoy reading whole rack of pc
weeks' all by your lonesome.

loot i got for christmas: r-19 insulation in the attic and new kitchen cabinets
courtesy walker's call to the city building inspector right before moving out.
practical results of reading george hayduke.

also: a nifty book listing uninhabited tropical islands all over the world
complete with topographical maps and other pertinent info.

,

each year seems to have its points both recommending and dismissing itself.

what happens to wm parker et al if homestead is dead? will we be at the mercy
of japanese prices and fuck you distribution?

what are those dates at duke again?

in the early '70's it was called the peter principle. in the mid 90's it's
referred to as the dilbert principle. same shit, different day. but in practice
it's more insidious thanks to faux-civility. there's no evil dogbert, just
lotsa nice people who seem to be in some sorta trance.

sufficiently vague top posts of 1996: 1) tie - anything by either randy or ri,
2) alla that dave davis spew, 3) anything by brenda cole, 4) draxx's wild dog
outta nowhere story, 5) holly's playlists, 6) opus's dream, 7) the collective
existential crises of bo, jenn, christa, and ri, 8) alan cracking on anybody
or anything, 9) anytime gary, alec, or riser felt sorry for their bands,
11) all posts advertising phone sex numbers or mail order brides, 12) any post
from high profile scenesters feeling indignant regarding perceived acceptance
of their bidniz, 13) any post questioning another's relative credentials to
make art or advertising that one will decline even considering another's art,
14) all the posts that never came in either the mail or to the newsreader,
15) buncha other stuff... how's anyone 'sposta 'member or put into 'spective
witout no archives?

but i don't believe in alla dese crucial superlative lists. 's all context,
which is faux. one cannot see it all. one's vision is randomly blurred. dis
has done nuttin but 'cumulate through history until now, where alla poot is
wildly skewed to look like golden turds. crap is a science and science is
faux.

i'd like to invite you all over to my place for coffee, the day before
yesterday. come as you are. show up between six and seven. stay for ten
minutes.

lookey, have you ever been looking straight down at the floor beside the
door when an animal you didn't expect comes leaping through the cat access?
to see a ball of animated fur suddenly growing out of the wood like a time
lapse tumor.

laff alla you want: beyond da java cee and nuttin else comes close.

but i am a fiction planted in the manure of my own biology, weeding up to
whatever contextual science shines handily, so if alec's dream comes true,
i'll start a zine, a gallery, and play drums in five bands... all completely
financed by benefits held at the cradle.



my attention to detail is shot.

at the seemingly original location of miracle house, a shitter was located
nearly in the middle of the floor, surrounded by half-panels, for privacy,
so one could do what one thought was wrong. usually, by the middle of blue
green gods set, the pipes would clog, and liquid feces would come pouring
out over the floor of the club. this would be about the time your favorite
bassist would light up queen-sized doob and no one could smell the difference.
over on the far side of the wall were a set of skate ramps. there was no
dancing, just skating. then the cops found out. oops. those bike face boys,
haha, they just crack me up.

you should check out the creedmoor music scene.

i don't know about your common archers fan's obsession with small japanese
women, but the new harper's is hellbent on demonstrating poetry not only
doesn't work as well but neither is it dementia proof. a fucking wasteland
of a century among as wasteland of centuries.

poets in deed after all that.

you might think it's just those other peeps who don't know how to carry on
a discussion.

well, he left an article in the voice initialed for me with all kinda cryptic
notes written in the margins. i appreciated this and await a time of mulling
over spices.

then today, i get a seemingly different sort of chain letter from a friend.
this one has potential for wrecking great havoc, even. beautiful.

without any two bit pistol being held to head, it makes perfect fucking sense
that the best liked music is not on any rekkid. that's all the rekkid shopping
one needs right there.

i'm just having trouble expressing myself.

thanky, he said. doggam, bo cracks me up. yeah, that boster concert post, too.

that book, reviewed in outposts, about elisabeth nietzsche, for my birthday?
most of that sidereal story already pieced together but this bit of research
would be -interesting- at least, a distinguishing mark of interest.

my mind was a freakin hemorrhoid chimera, but these days i'm having a lard
crime.

was definitely something i ate.

3.2.3